


Collection of add-ons and what-ifs

by Elie



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Blood, Explicit Language, Explosions, Family Feels, Gen, Generally just people being angsty, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, I guess???, Talk about death, Theres abandonment issues, Underage Drinking, also i dont know much bout how the 1920s worked so probably, i mean they all curse alot whos surprised, spoilers for s2ep5, spoilers for s3ep6, spoilers for s4ep6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-16 08:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21033650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elie/pseuds/Elie
Summary: Because sometimes what they show on screen isn't enough, or I just want those family feels and angsty timeschapter 1: add-on for s4ep6, Finn's reaction to having been lied to about Arthur's deathchapter 2: what-if for s3ep6, Finn gets hurt when the train goes up in flameschapter 3: what-if for s2ep5, Pol does more than just take Finn out of that meeting, something more permanent (aka Pol being a (desperate) mom)





	1. s4ep6

**Author's Note:**

> hello, i binged watch all of peaky blinders and now im desperate for that finn-centric angst so after going through the whole ao3 tag and still not being satisfied, i had to write some myself
> 
> this is set in the warehouse, in s4ep6, when Arthur turns out to be dead, and it annoyed me to no end that there was no comment from Finn about being kept on the outside, soo, heres some, and the aftermath

“You - you're alive,” Finn breaks the silence when the Italians have left. Tom’s eyes snap up as he turns to look at his younger brother. It’s a bit of a delayed response, Tom thinks. Finn seems to be shaking as he passes Tom, taking wobbly steps that echo through the warehouse towards Arthur. His eyes look very misty, face full of shock and surprise as he steps over Luca Changretta's dead body. 

“Yeah, Finn boy, I am,” Arthur says, stepping to meet their little brother halfway.

Finn, before he reaches Arthur, looks around. First at Polly, before his wild eyes move to meet Tom's.

“You guys knew,” he says then, the tone so different than before and his face hardens. His body stiffens, and his expression becomes schooled. “You tricked me,” he continues, voice full of disbelief, face full of betrayal. _Me_, the boy had said, Tom notes, not us. 

“We had too, Finn,” Arthur says, finally having reached the younger, and has put his hands to rest on Finn’s shoulders.

“No,” Finn says then, and tries to shake Arthur off but the older tightens his hold, keeps him steady in a firm grip. Tom remembers the boxing match, a few evenings earlier when he’d gone to find Finn in the crowd and tell him what supposedly had happened.

The shock and grief that had shown on his little brother's face are like corroded into his mind. Finn’s eyes had gone from shocked to heart-broken to consumed by utter rage. It's a memory Tom will carry forever. Now he realizes that was the final fire ember in the funeral pyre for Finn Shelby’s childhood. 

“I thought I was _in_,” Finn says, trying to hold on to his stoic calmness but failing, emotion slipping through, and his shoulders are full of tension.

Tom sighs and tries to think of the right words to say, and meets Arthur's eyes over Finn’s shoulder. Finn is in, he is, but they couldn’t risk telling him.

“We needed people to believe that Arthur was dead, the grief had to seem real,” he says and sees Pol moves closer to him. 

“That's because it _was_ real!” Finn yells, breaking free of Arthur’s hold, and turning to look at him. Finn’s eyes, once again full of rage, bores into him, so different from the kid Tom once knew. “You let me think he was fucking dead!” he screams, voice cracking, “we had a bloody funeral!” Then Finn is moving towards him, strong movements and fist raised - he wants a fight. But before he even reaches Tom and Polly, Arthur's arms are around his middle.

“Hush now Finn, you knew they only did what they had to do, don’t be a bloody fool,” their oldest brother says as he keeps holding on to a trashing Finn. 

“I took someone’s fucking _eyes_, for you, Arthur,” Finn says, voice broken, fight draining out of him. “Then you pull this shit? You do this to me?” he rages.

“You can’t have a bloody hissy fit every time we keep something from you,” Tom says. Hasn’t he and Finn already had the talk about being a man? Does the younger boy remember nothing? Finn was brought up amid everything, their business, and he still doesn't seem to have learned that some lies are necessary. 

The way Pol’s sharp elbow connects with his side, tells him it might not have been the right thing to say. 

At Tom’s words, the fight seems to come back into Finn’s body, as he trashes against Arthur like an insolent child. He waits for Arthurs patience to end, for the oldest to give the screaming brat in his hands the scolding he deserves. Instead - Arthur grips harder, turning the boy towards himself again. Tom watches as Arthur presses Finn’s head to his shoulder, the same way he had done to Tom when his son had been kidnapped. 

Finn’s body is heaving with heavy breathes, and - a pitiful whimper. It strikes at something in Tom, at his cold heart, because it sounds so full of pain. Finn has always been the softest of them, perhaps because of how much they’ve tried to shield him from. Maybe that was a mistake.

“After John,” Finn mumbles, stifled by Arthur’s coat but still loud enough for them to hear. The mention of John makes them all stiffen. 

“I’m here, Finn,” Arthur says, even though Finn hadn’t questioned it, but it seems to relax the younger. The two of them have always had a close relationship. Arthur had fought almost as much as Pol to keep Finn out of the business as much and as long as possible. 

“You can’t keep shit like this from me,” Finn says, body not shaking as much anymore but head still leaned against Arthur’s shoulder, his knees still wobbly. 

“You know we sometimes have to, it’s _business_,” Tom says.

Finn wrenches free from Arthur’s hold again, and this time Arthur doesn’t move to grab him. Tom looks at his older brother and finds that he looks tired and a little bit sad. 

If John was there, Tom thinks he would have known how to defuse the situation. He always had a way with their kid brother, to tease him, to light almost any situation. 

“I see,” Finn says, voice cold, and when Tom looks over the boy seems to finally have gotten his emotions under control. Tom hopes they can leave now, quit this stupid squabbling, and have some proper food - celebrate their win.

“Let’s go home,” he suggests, and Polly nods, and Arthur moves closer but turns out; Finn isn’t done.

“I’m not going with you, not now,” he says, not yelling anymore but his voice is still cutting. “I’m going to the fucking - I don’t know, whichever pub I can find,” he continues, already turning around to leave. 

“Finn-” he starts, planning to stop their brother, but Polly interrupts him with a hand on his arm. He looks at her, confused, and she shakes her head. Finn’s all but running out of the room, coat flagging behind him.

“Let him go, run off some steam,” Pol says as the heavy warehouse gate slams shut behind Finn.

“That fucking kid is going to be the death of me,” Tom says, then, “he needs to learn how to be a man.”

“You never should’ve brought him in. He could’ve been kept out of all of this, if you’d only listened to me all those years ago,” Pol answers. She's not looking at Tom, but fixing her clothes and gathering her stuff. Still, her words strike him. 

“You know there’s no way we could’ve kept him out,” Arthur says, surprising Tom a little, “He wanted in. He grew up following us around and he never listened back then either,” Arthurs sighs as he drags a hand over his face. 

“You could’ve sent him away after you lot came back from the war. Back when you started all this _shit_ for real,” Pol says, looking very much ready to leave. “He was _ten years old_, and already then I could tell he was too soft for it,” she says, voice sharp. Tom hears a hint of something more there. Grief, perhaps, for the boy Finn once was. It was after all she who’d brought up Finn, more than their own mother, who’d died before Finn had even reached his second year. 

“He’s still young, he’ll learn,” Arthur says then, sounding final. 

He’ll have too, Tom thinks, if Finn doesn’t want to end up dead. He doesn’t say that out loud though, sees no reason to. They’re all thinking it. 

Giving a final look at the dead Italian at his feet, he puts his cap on and walks towards the door. It’s time to get the hell out of this bloody warehouse, and celebrate that they’ve won, whether Finn is mad or not. He needs a fucking drink. 

-

It’s easier to explain it all to the others. They aren’t that surprised it seems over the fact that it was all a lie. Maybe they’ve all come to expect the lies by now.

Ada’s a little hurt, not that anyone’s shocked, and she spews a few words about betrayal, like Finn had. Thankfully she calms quicker than their younger brother had. She’s older, and her maturity helps, but she still lets Arthur hug her close as she fails to keep the tears at bay. The pure joy of having won, that they don't have to keep looking over their shoulder for possible Italian assassins everywhere they go, seems to kills her anger. 

-

Finn shows up the next day, at their old house in Watery Lane. He doesn’t say a word when he passes the kitchen, where they all just like old times are sat around the table. His clothes look dirty, and his face which is set like stone is sporting a split lip, but he doesn’t yell. Doesn’t throw another fit. Just stalks past, not sparing them a single look, and disappears upstairs to his old bedroom.

Ada rolls her eyes at Tom and Arthur’s frown, “bloody teenage boys,” she says.

“We need to get going, we have a party to attend. Pol’s already there,” Arthur mumbles, setting his teacup down. “Finn needs to come with,” he continues, and Tom sees him look over at Ada.

Ada huffs, “of course, the _woman_ has to talk to the moody one,” but puts her cup down too and gets up, brushing any dust off her clothes as she stands.

“Well, get ready then,” she says as she walks through the door, stopping to look at them both in the doorway. “I’ll have our brother here in a few minutes. You both better be packed and ready to go by then,” she commands, and disappears up after their brother. 

-

True to her words, Ada has their brother downstairs in only a few minutes. He’s changed out of his clothes now, dressed more properly for the party. His face is washed too, his lip doesn’t look quite as bad anymore. 

He doesn’t say anything either, which Tom takes as a good sign. He’s really not up for more childish complaining, nor any fighting. 

They all pile into the car, and it reminds Tom of simpler times, older times, being crammed together in a small space like this. There’s a bit of tension that didn’t use to be there before, but he can overlook it for now.

“You gonna sit and stew the whole way there Finn?” Arthur asks from Tom’s left, the older sitting in the passenger seat as he drives. It’s been silent up until now, uncomfortably so.

“No,” Finn replies, voice void of any emotion. 

“It’s going to be a fucking celebration!” Arthur proclaims, too damn happy, as he fishes a flask up from his inner pocket, taking a huge swing. He then turns and offers it to Finn. Tom looks through the mirror, sees Finn’s hesitation, before a small smile comes over the boys' face as he reaches out and grips the flask.

There’s still a part of him that’s against Finn’s drinking. A part of him that thinks of Finn as his kid brother. He can't comment anything on it now, not without starting another fight, so he pushes it down into a dark corner of his mind. Finn’s a man now, he has to be, Tom’s said so himself. 

It seems there’s peace again between them after that. Once they reach the house Finn’s acting more himself again. It could be the alcohol, but there’s not a huge frown on his face anymore, and he greets everyone properly like he's been taught. He does what is expected of him; fixing drinks for everyone, helping out, and keeping his cool. 

And once again, just like that, they’re back.


	2. What-if for s3ep6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all see the train go up in s3ep6, and Finn is just standing right there, and shit is flying around John and Arthur, so how did Finn manage to not get hurt?
> 
> In this, he doesn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is me, just whumping that boy because i need to, aka totally self-indulgent,

He’s running as fast as he can, jacket flying behind him, his hat already flown off. 

“ARTHUR WAIT” he yells as he comes closer, the train is moving in front of him. They’re about to do it, he realizes. If he doesn’t get there in time, they’re gonna do it. Just a few seconds now, between those men living and being sent to hell.

“CHARLIE’S SAFE,” he yells.

He’s a second too late.

There’s a loud sound. A boom. It’s so hot. He’s flying.

Everything turns black.

-

“Holy fucking hell,” John booms as they step out of the carriage they’d been hiding in. There’s shrapnel everywhere and everything seems to be burning. There’s the peculiar smell of explosives in the air, it stings in his nose. The words they’d heard Finn yell, just a second too late, rings in both their ears together with the explosion.

Arthur steps after him, legs shaky. He’d done it. Made that train go boom. He looks at the ground, he’s bent over, he realizes. He's breathing deep and harsh too. His heartbeat is going wild inside his chest - like it wants to break out of the prison that is his ribcage.

“Where the bloody hell is Finn?” John asks then. It makes him straighten up, because - the boy had been there. They’d heard him, seconds before. Now, he's nowhere to be seen. 

Or? His brow furrows as he tries to see between the light of the flames and the dark of the night. There’s.. There’s a lump, a shadow. A little further down the tracks. Laid still. It wasn’t there when they arrived, that he’s sure of. 

“Oh shit,” he says, and is already taking off running. He hears John’s realization too, a second later, before his younger brother takes off after him.

“FINN!” John screams, it sounds painful. His heart who had started slowing down is speeding up again as the lump becomes clearer. A body laid on its side. A black coat, singed by fire. A coat just like theirs.

He falls down onto his knees, he doesn’ give a fuck about how the gravel digs into his pants and his skin. He realizes his hands are shaking as he reaches out, tipping the body, no, not the body, Finn, over on his back. Finn’s eyes are closed, there are a few lacerations on his face, making him look paler than usual. There’s a bleeding wound on the side of his head where it must have connected with the track.

“Finn, boy,” he says, shaking his limp little brother with a soft hand, watching as his head lols with the movement. There’s no reaction, and his heart sinks in his chest. 

Another hand, John, who’s sat down on the opposite side, reaches out towards Finn’s neck. Arthur hadn’t even thought about that, god, his head is so messed up. He holds his breath, couldn’t breathe if he wanted too as John’s fingers come to rest over their little brother's skin. 

A second pass by.

“He’s still alive,” John says on an out-breath, relief filling his voice. Arthur lets the breath he was holding go, some of his panic ebbing away. There’s still time then. 

John is shrugging off his own jacket, his vest too, as Arthur cards a hand through Finn’s hair. He hears the sound of something ripping, and then there’s a white piece of fabric pushed into his hand.

“Press it against his head wound,” John commands, and Arthur - he listens. He finds himself helpless, he wouldn’t have been able to think of that himself. 

“There - there seems to be glass,” John says then, voice more wobbly, and it grabs his attention.

“What?” he asks, because, yes - there’s glass everywhere, probably in the little cuts on Finn’s face. Then he looks up at John, who's gone very pale, and he follows the line his eyes are going. There’s a huge piece of shrapnel, glass, like John had said, lodge into their little brother's side. It seems to be holding most blood in, yet, even though some are bubbling up along the wound.

“We need to get him out of here, it’s going to be crawling with coppers soon,” he hears himself say. He looks up to meet John’s eye. The younger man nods before he grabs the slightly blood-soaked piece of shirt out of Arthur's hand and starts wrapping it around Finn’s head.

“Okay, I’ll lift him, then,” Arthur says, when the bandage around Finn’s head is tied tight. John nods, though he looks a little unsure.

“Try not to jostle the glass,” John says, voice stoic, but Arthur can see that his hands, full of blood, are shaking. “We really should’ve had a stretcher,” he mumbles, shaking his head. 

“Of course I’ll try not to jostle the glass, I’m not an idiot, and do you see a bloody stretcher here?” he bites back because anger is easier than any other emotion. He reaches out, tries to sneak his hand under Finn’s body - lucky for them the kid is such a stick. Barely anything else than skin and bones. They’ve tried to tell him to eat more, but he’s seen the kid shovel down tons of food, and still, he keeps looking thin and lanky. 

Now, he’s glad Finn’s so small - it makes it easier to lift him.

John holds on to Finn’s head, making sure he doesn’t hurt it anymore, that it doesn’t slam against the ground, as Arthur gets a proper grip around him. Bracing his knees under him, Arthur counts to three for himself, before he lifts. 

“Easy with the glass!” John yells, loud and much more scared than Arthurs heard him in a long time. He holds back the angry reply he wants to scream back to him. He knows John is only angry because he's worried about their kid brother, the same as he is.

With heavy steps they start stalking towards the building, they’ll have to go through it to get to their car. He’s already thinking logistics, John’ll have to sit in the back, take care of Finn, as he drives. They can’t put Finn in the back alone.

He walks, minding his steps, he can’t afford to trip now, and realizes John's steps has stopped.

“John, what the hell are you doing?” he grunts because Finn might be thin and frail but he’s still a teenage boy. There are limits to how long Arthur can carry this load.

“His hat,” John whispers beside him, and this time Arthur can’t hide his irritated huff as he turns around, cargo in hand, to look at his brother. John’s crouched down on the ground, holding a Peaky hat in his hand - Finn’s of course.

“Must’ve been blown off,” he comments, as he, as careful as he can be, tries to secure his grip more tightly on the brother he’s currently carrying in his arms. It would be so much easier if he could’ve thrown him over his shoulder instead. Like that time the kid had snook himself too much to drink and Arthur had found him stumbling down the street.

What he would pay for Finn only to be drunk, and not hurt, almost dying, right now.

John’s still crouched on the ground, cap in hand.

“Grab the cap and get up, I can’t carry Finn’s sorry ass for forever,” he says to him, trying to hold his voice steady. Being the leading big brother John needs.

For once, John doesn’t bite anything back, though he does cradle the cap tighter in his hands before he rises. 

When they’re almost by the car there’s a pitiful whimper from the overgrown bundle in his arms. And then another. And then movement. 

“Crap- shh, Finny, we gotta get you to the damn car,” he says, trying to sound authoritative and secure.

John is jogging ahead now, opening the car and getting it ready to load Finn into. Meanwhile, their patient is moving in his arms more and more. He's becoming more in danger of pulling at the glass in a move that could hurt him even more or very well kill him.

“Finn, you gotta stay still. There’s a piece of glass stuck in your damn gut,” he tells the squirming boy, trying to press him closer to his chest so he'll have less wiggle room. His arms are starting to shake from the strain. 

“Let’s get him in the car, now, yeah?” John says then, thank fucking god, and Arthur hurries over and lets John help him maneuver Finn into the seats.

“Sit in the back with him, I’ll drive,” he commands, and feels relieved when John doesn’t argue. The younger gets in the back, laying Finn’s make-shift bandaged head in his lap without any fuss.

As he starts the car, he spares a glance at his two little brothers in the back. John’s eyes are concentrated on the younger, petting his head, in a rare display of care. What he can see off Finn’s face is scrunched up in pain. 

“Fucking drive, Arthur!” John yells then, and it sets him in motion, pressing the gas, and Finn’s howls of pain follow them all the way home.

They can’t go to a hospital. Because he, and John, they just blew up a fucking train, full of normal, working men. They murdered a dozen people, and the coppers are most likely already on their way. If they haven’t already arrived and started looking for the culprits.

Finn continues screaming, and he doesn’t shut up before they’re back, and he’s laid on a table, shirt ripped open, and Ada and John are pulling the glass out of his stomach. Arthur’s poured whiskey down the kid's throat, but it seems to be a meager help. Finn’s screaming himself hoarse. Then, when he stops screaming, he starts whimpering like a wounded puppy. And when even the whimpers temper off, and there seems to be no more energy, he finally quiets. Finn feels his heart-rate speed up. He - Finn, he can't be? 

Polly’s hand is there on Finn’s neck the second he falls limp, head falling to the side. “He's still alive, still breathing, it’s just because of the pain,” she assures all the worried eyes falling on her.

Arthur can’t help how his thoughts drift to the war when it wasn’t glass lodge into anyone's stomach but bullets. Soldiers used to do that- pass out when the doctors were digging out bullets without any form of medication at hand. Now it’s his little brother, still so young, a kid in Arthur’s eyes, passing out because the pain is too much. It shouldn't be like this. 

There’s so much blood, pumping out from where the glass once was struck. The room is thrown into a hurry, people running around with towels and bandages and - a sewing kit. It’s not Polly, not Ada, it’s fucking Jon sewing their brother's guts back together. He must’ve picked it up in the war, Arthur thinks, suddenly feeling a bit like an outsider. 

He can’t do anything and feels frozen to the spot.

“Arthur, you need to call Tommy. He knows Charlie’s safe but - he doesn’t know about Finn,” Ada says, appearing in front of him. Arthur stares dumbly at her, the words not seeming to filter through properly. His head is still stuck in the war, but it's not his fellow soldiers but his brothers dying, getting shot. 

“Arthur!” Ada yells then, grabbing his shoulder, shaking them, “You need to fucking call Tom,” she orders. 

Once again his body is under his control, his head back in the game. He still doesn't have the strength to speak, but he nods, and that seems to be enough because Ada springs back to Finn's side. 

Arthur steps over into the office and to the phone. His hands are still shaking and there’s - there’s blood on them. Yet, he manages to lift the phone and call out for the right numbers.

“Hello?” Tommy sounds winded over the phone like he has just run a mile. 

“Tommy,” Arthur forces through his own gritted teeth, it sounds too emotional, he needs to get a grip.

“Arthur?” Tommy says, sounding both confused and increasingly worried, “What's going on? Is Charlie okay?” 

“Yeah- Charlie’s okay, he’s just fine,” Arthur looks at the small child, placed inside the same office he’s taking the phone call in, while the rest of the family works on Finn outside.

Just then, Finn seems to wake up. He screams, loud, almost so that the walls rattle. Charlie looks up at him with frightened eyes, and Arthur begs to whatever gods that are out there that the kid doesn’t start crying. 

“What was that?” Tom asks on the phone, voice tight, “Who the fuck is screaming?”

“It’s - it’s our Finn,” he answers, “got caught in the explosion when he came to tell us Charlie was fine.” The words flow easily now, like an open floodgate. “Got glass stabbed into his gut, and hurt his head on the rails or something,” he continues, “me and John got him back, they’re working on him now.” 

“Tell me when he pulls through,” Tom says and proceeds to hang up. Not if, when. 

Arthur allows himself to fall into the office chair. The worn fabric is comfortable against his tension-filled back. He reaches over puts the phone back on its hook and takes a second to breathe. He ruffles Charlie’s hair with his own bloodstained hand, before heaving himself up again. The child looks at him, confused, before going back to play with his toy horse. 

When he leaves the office again, things seem to have calmed down a little. A woman, a nurse, maybe, meets him at the door - she's there to fetch Charlie. Arthur succeeds in keeping his knees from shaking as he walks to the table where his brother is still laid, but that's just barely. He can see that bloodstained shirt still is on Finn's thin body but it's ripped open, showing pale bloodstained skin. There’s a bandage, a proper one; not just John’s ripped shirt, around his head now too. What he can see of the stab wound is only dark blood, now getting washed off by Polly, and jagged irritated stitches. 

His little brother is panting and his breaths go out and in short and sharp as Arthur approaches. Ada seems to be holding his hand, clutching it with her knuckles turned white. The room smells like liquor, and he wonders if the screaming Tom had heard over the phone was from when they’d poured the liquid over Finn’s wound.

He knows from experience that it burns like hell.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks, turning to John. His brother looks paler than usual, and like Arthur’s his hands are bloodstained, maybe even more so than his own. Must be from the sewing. 

“If the whiskey does its job-,” John says, taking a break to breathe in deep, “he should be fine, lucky the glass didn’t nick anything important.” 

Lucky, yeah, isn’t that the story of their fucking life.


	3. What-if for s2ep5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Pol did more than just take Finn out of that meeting in s2ep5, and actually acted as some kind of parent for him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, this is dedicated to an anon on tumblr who sent alot of great asks and inspired me to write this because we talked about how we need more of finn and pols relationship, how it actually works, and i need to know whos parenting this actual child
> 
> also im a sucker for family feels and loved the mentioned scene a whole lot, one of few little glimpses of pol and finns dynamic, their whole family's really
> 
> (im also still wondering where the hell he's living after pol moves out)

Finding Michael, seeing him alive, getting to be with him, it’s something she had only fantasized about. She never in her wildest dreams, believed it would happen in reality. 

Then it _did_. And she was so so overjoyed.

Then he got dragged into their family business, as everyone who comes close to any of the Shelby do. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, to tell Tommy no, they got him. She could only watch as her son got dragged into a life full of dangers and criminality, of guns and murder. Her happiness, her joy, turned into fear. Fear for the inevitable, fear of what she had done. 

Michael gets arrested, right in front of her, once again dragged out of her arms. God, she fights, almost as much as she had done back then, but the coppers, just as last time, shows no mercy. They take her boy away. She should've foreseen this, shouldn't have been so greedy. But she had wanted her son back so bad it felt like a physical pain in her chest, she couldn't stay away. 

Esme is there at their family meeting afterwards, of course, she’s there. She's talking too, like she's got any kind of right. The only reason she's there is that she's got John tucked around her little finger. 

Worst of all, Tommy, he’s letting Esme speak. Telling her, his aunt, to be quiet, only to force her to listen to Esme sprout on about the fucking Lee’s, how the girl thinks they can use them to gain more men. 

How is it possible that Esme, a woman herself, doesn't realize that it’s the men who've brought this upon them? Their fragile confidence and petty fights have always only lead to pain and death. Yet she stands there, talking about kin and fighting like she knows it all. Pol can't stand it and has no problem telling the others exactly what's on her mind.

Tommy is disregarding everything she says like she is an insolent child. Even worse than that; he's _listening_ to Esme's fuckery. 

It's the last straw, the last drop of water that makes everything run over. 

She’s hurt and more important, she’s _angry_. Fucking angry, furious, at the people supposed to be her family. She steps close to Tommy, so much so that he _has_ to look at her. He has no escape from her wrath.

“If Michael _ever_ gets out of prison,” she rages, forcing her voice not to waver, “I’m taking him away from this family, for good!” 

She doesn’t have to say it, but it's clear she means that she’s leaving for good too with him. They can all rot, for whatever she cares, as of right now. She just lost her son for the second time. All because of the way they live their lives. It's time she put a stop to it for good. This whole thing, ever letting Michael enter the betting-shop, was a mistake.

She lets herself gaze over the other people in the room. John is still sat in a chair, but his eyes betray him. They tell her his thoughts are elsewhere, maybe with Arthur, who just like Michael is stuck in a lonely prison cell. John used to be so sweet, but now, he has his demons too, even if she knows he's the most loyal of them all. 

She sees Esme, standing there so fucking self-righteous, thinking she's hot shit. God. She understands why John had to marry her, how it was a good plan, but she refuses to accept the girl just yet. 

And Finn. She’s been so busy with Michael, getting to know him, letting him into her life. She hasn’t seen much of the other young boy lately. Not talked to him, like they used to, in too long. They used to have tea, she recalls, like they were proper posh people, and they'd laugh. It's a long time ago now. 

She’d raised Finn from before he'd turned two, almost like she was her own son. Even though it had hurt her at times; looking at his freckles, hearing his laugh, and only wondering where Michael was, she'd still done it. 

In the darkest nights, she’d sometimes pretended that Finn was her son, that Finn was Michael. Only when the boy was a baby and she'd maybe had a little too much to drink. She’d even call him Michael, out of everyone else's earshot. It was an awful and dark thing to do, and nothing any higher entity would forgive, but still, she'd done it. There had been such a longing for her children, stuck in her heart, and it had been so strong. What was she supposed to do? 

Then the child had grown older, into a beautiful boy, into a person of his own. She could no longer pretend, and she realized that maybe she didn’t even want to. She'd started thinking that Finn wasn't a replacement gifted by death, but an addition. Another chance, something to take her mind off the all-consuming grief. Finn was her son then, in everything but biology. He'd required enough attention to leave her thoughts busy and her body drained. It had given her a chance of feeling that happiness again, the kind only able to be given by a child. 

And now she had claimed she would leave them all together with Michael. Yelled, for them all to hear, including Finn, that she would leave the boy she had brought up like her own. That she would leave him in the crushing clutches of his older brothers, so she could be with the one she had lost. All for Michael, who's been occupying her every thought since she got told he was alive and where he lived. 

The older brothers, they would break Finn. 

They will break him if she leaves him here, this is something she knows. 

Her eyes meet Finn’s for a brief moment. They’re huge and fearful. He’s never quite managed the emotionless look his older brothers have perfected over the years. It might’ve been the war who thought them that or it might’ve been something else, something Finn has yet to meet. Something he will meet if Tommy has his way.

Finn had sounded worried, she recalls now, and she hadn’t thought about it earlier in her rage. He’d mentioned Michael, that he’d been taken, even before she had gotten too unleashing her rage. Even when she knows how close he is to Arthur, who’s in the same predicament, he'd mentioned Michael. Finn, who must feel so inferior and hurt over the way Michael has strolled in and climbed the ladder of the Peaky Blinders so fast and easy. He was standing higher than Finn in a matter of days, and she'd been so proud. 

She hadn’t thought about Finn feelings. Not before now. She knows Finn, how to read his feelings, or at least she used to. She hasn’t properly locked at his face in so long that she’s almost forgotten how to. 

She has no idea what he's felt about all that's been happening. 

Michael’s not the only son she’s failed, it seems. 

“This life is _bad_,” she states, no longer able to keep the sorrow blended with rage out of her voice. Her emotions are being butchered right open for all the rest to see. Her feet are already taking her around the table and towards Finn, and he’s grown so tall, it almost takes her surprise. She's seen him often, yes, but never really looked at him. Finn only looks at her confused, like he doesn't understand why she's coming towards him at all. 

Esme, who for once seems to know what’s good for her, is keeping her eyes down on the floor and her mouth shut. John and Tom, they're both silent as they watch her grab Finn’s upper arm in a tight hold.

“This life is _all bad_,” she repeats, looking Tom straight in the eye, before not too gently nudging Finn to follow her. Relief releases in her when he follows her steps. He doesn’t work against her - she still has some authority over him it seems.

He does ask her though, in a small voice she wasn't aware he was still capable of making, “aunt Pol, what are you doing?” And she wonders if he actually wants to stay, or if it’s a show in front of his brothers. He’s always been awfully keen to be like them, to be with them. 

“Shut up and walk!” she tells him. The two of them are already stepping through the betting shop-entry. The only sound following them is the clacking of her own heels against the floor. No one protests them leaving, they're all bloody silent. 

Finn doesn’t argue back at that, following her commands. His steps quicken, his feet longer than hers, taking him at a faster pace than hers towards the door. She almost has to run to keep up, it's almost like it's now him drawing her out of the room and not the opposite. 

Once she’s outside, she takes a moment to lean against the wall, to breath. The air, it had seemed so thick in there, so full of emotions. Out here, it’s only the smell of shit and exhaust hitting her nose. It’s a blessing for once to fill her lungs with the polluted air.

“What does this mean?” Finn asks, blinking at her through his eyelashes, looking every bit as young as he is. 

“It means you’re not following that road,” she answers, turning to look up at the sky. It’s still blue, up there behind the clouds. She wonders how Michael is and if he’s locked in a dark cell. Is there’s a window to from him look out of? Is he looking at the sky, at this moment, like she is?

Has anyone come for him yet? Has anyone hurt him?

“Which road? Do you think I’ll go to prison?” Finn asks, voice full of disbelief and it brings her out of her spiraling thoughts. 

Oh, sweet naive child. 

“I think you’ll die if you continue to follow your brothers as you do. If you keep following Tommy, nipping at his heels, prison will be the least of your worries,” she says. It's all true and so hurtful, and when she turns to look at the boy his mouth is hanging half-open in shock. It snaps shut when their eyes meet and he realizes she saw every bit of emotion he was letting seep through his face.

“I have to,” he says, eyes too clear, and she has to brace herself for not any more emotions to well up inside her. He’s so young, younger than her Michael. She forgets that sometimes, nowadays, maybe too often. 

“No, you fucking don’t,” she moves closer to him, grabbing part of his suit jacket tight in her hand. “You don’t have to do anything, but get the _fuck_ away from this,” she continues, hoping her words reach him the way she wants them too. Suddenly that's all she needs. All she should’ve done ages ago.

It’s too late for the others, but Michael and Finn? They she can still get out.

“You think I’ll leave, just like that?” he scoffs, and tries to step away but her hand is still holding on to his jacket so he doesn’t get far. He doesn’t wrench himself free, either. She thinks it says _something_ about what he's feeling underneath all his bravado, even if she isn’t sure exactly what that something is. He's trying to be strong, and at some point, he's learned how to hide from her. 

“I know you will,” she tells him, catching his eyes, dragging him close to her again. He’s even taller than ever, and a lot so, she can't stop noting it. Still, she knows how to make them feel small, all of them, and he's no exception, no matter the height. 

“I can’t,” he whispers, eyes lowering to his feet. She grabs his chin then, forces his face up to look at her again. There he is, that boy she knew, who was hiding all that pain before. 

“Yes, you can. You will,” she whispers back, voice growing in both force and volume as she continues, “Because that is what’s best. This is what I’m telling you to do. You listen to me now, I can’t watch you get dragged in by them.”

“They’re _family_.”

“Yes, but so are we. Me, you and Michael,” she should’ve said this before when Michael first showed up. She’d just been so happy. Unable to see anyone else’s feelings for that short moment of bliss when she'd held her son in her arms again.

“Michael’s in prison!” he finally frees his jacket from her hold, in an odd show of power, throwing his arms out in exasperation. 

“I’ll get him out,” she tells him. She already knows what to do, what she’ll do, but she can’t tell Finn the plan. She won’t. No matter what she has to offer, to give up, she’ll have Michael, but she can’t bring herself to tell Finn how.

He seems to believe her words. He’s always done that; trusted her so much, not seeing through most of her lies. Granted, those lies often were about monsters under the bed or his brothers being safe and sound out there in the great big war. Easy lies that he had wanted to believe. 

It’s nice to see that she's still got it. 

“Where do you even want me to go?” he says. It was easier than she thought, getting him to listen to her and consider the idea. But then again, isn’t that what a child does? Trusts their parents, even when their parents have given them more and more reasons not to? They’ve yet to reach their breaking point, she notes, and she can’t let it happen now.

She just needs Michael.

But she knows if Finn stays longer, he'll find Tommy or John. The two of them, they’ll capture him in their hands again. They'll drown him in Peaky business, and he’ll never get to come up for air again. 

For a little while longer, John and Tommy will be busy. They won’t notice that Finn has left before in a couple of days if she's lucky. By then Micael will be free, and they’ll be gone too, following after Finn. It's the perfect window of time that has been thrown in their laps. 

“You'll go to the travelers, you know where to find them. They’re our kin and leaving tomorrow. Join them,” she’s eager now, the idea unraveling in her head. 

“You want me to leave tomorrow?” Finn’s eyes are wide, his brow furrowed. His hands are tucked into his pockets now, but she can see the tension in his body. He’s conflicted.

“I want you to leave _tonight_, right now,” she tells him, knowing it’s harsh, but the right thing. The more she thinks about it, the surer she is. Finn has to leave as soon as possible if he wants to be free. Anyone can walk out of the betting shop at any time and discover their conversation. Try to lure them in again.

“What about you? And Michael?” Finn's biting his lip, a habit she’d thought he’d kicked a long time ago, but maybe he’d just hidden it from her. She seems to have missed a lot of things, lately.

“We’ll come after you, as soon as I have Michael, I’ll come,” she promises and hopes it’s not a lie. She has to save someone at least. 

Finn looks at her, and then they’re both silent for a moment, listening to the street going about its day around them. The baker, cleaning up for the day. A man on his horse going past.

She holds Finn's gaze, strong and never wavering; just like he needs her to be. 

“You have to go, now,” she says, trying her best to be stern. 

“What about - what about my stuff, I have nothing-” he starts, but she interrupts him. “They’ll have clothes for you. You can’t wear your usual attire with them if you want to fit in any way,” she assures, "and you won't need any money." 

“What if they won’t let me in?” he asks then, maybe trying to find excuses not to go. She can’t hold it against him. He loves his brothers, and so does she, but this has gone on long enough. Letting him grow up, letting him believe he would one day be like his brothers, that was her mistake. Now she needs to make it right. For her sister. She can’t let her darling sister’s littlest one get broken like she has let the older ones. 

Maybe she needs to do this for herself too. To know that Finn is safe would be another dream coming true. She hadn't realized it was before now that it had been thrown into her face.

“You’re kin. Just smile that little grin of yours and they’ll accept you. Let them dress you like they want to, and it'll be okay,” she assures, dusting off his shoulder with a soft hand. 

“I can’t say goodbye, can’t I?” he asks then, and even if she knows it's for the best, her heartbreaks for what she’s doing. It’s weird, being so conflicted, and knowing what she’s doing is the right thing at the same time. Fucking hell. 

“No, you can’t,” and she sees something in his eyes that worry her. “Don’t you _dare_ not to fucking listen to me. I’ll personally find and shoot you myself; before any of your brothers' thousands of enemies get the chance to.”

He nods, though he's still looking a little unsure. That's no good. She hits him with her fiercest glare, and he cowers a little. 

“This is for your own best, for the best of us all. Your brothers will understand,” she's desperate to make him accept what she asks of him. It must sound in her voice because his eyes change, they turn even softer and more clear. God, if he looked young before, it’s the total opposite now. He seems too old for his age, in that small window of time, and she realizes their life has already taken its toll on him. Already got some of its poisonous claws stuck in his chest. 

She can only hope time will be able to heal the wounds because it can’t be too late. She refuses to let it be.

“You'll come?” he asks, refusing to meet her gaze, and he sounds so vulnerable. 

Maybe that is what it’s all about, she thinks. The same thing they’re all afraid of, and she berates herself for not having thought about it before. 

Finn’s afraid to be alone. 

The boy's probably got abandonment issues the size of a mountain, just like the rest of them. He's afraid she’ll send him away, and not come after him, leave him all alone in the world, she can see it in his eyes. It might very well be the reason he's been so obsessed with following his brothers. He's been desperate to fit in - to not be left on the outside. 

And now she’s risking exactly that, having Finn's fear become reality, and he knows it just as she does. 

She might not be able to follow. Might have to stay away from where their kin travels to not draw attention, to keep herself and Michael safe. Michael's safety is not something she can risk, even if it means leaving Finn alone. She tells herself Finn won't be by himself, that there'll be dozen of others traveling with him. A part of her screams that it's not the same and she very well knows it. 

She figures one more lie can’t hurt any more than the dozens other she’s told him.

“Of course,” she says, the lie slipping off her tongue like it's been practiced to perfection. “_Of course_ I’ll come, me and Michael, we'll find you.”

“Will we ever be back? In Birmingham?” he questions, looking up at her, staring straight at her very soul.

She hopes she can manage to pull off another lie, even with his intense eyes studying her.

“Of course,” she repeats, and the words, the lies, turns out to come even easier than before, “This is our home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can reach me on tumblr (petersheart.tumblr.com) or just leave me a comment! i also really appreciate any and all kudos


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